Water Sprite : A Retelling of The Little Mermaid
by TheImaginationAddict
Summary: Jenny has lived by the seaside all her life, and is more at home in the water than without. She is warm and impulsive,has a flair for the dramatic and is utterly bored with the sameness of her life. A shipwreck, a sacrifice, and a gift change the course of her life forever - but for the better or worse? Inspired by the Once Upon a Time series by Simon Pulse.
1. Where This Is Leading

I have always loved fairy tales. They're idealistic, moralizing, fantastical and strange; and perfect fodder for imagination. In childhood, they served mainly as a stepping stone to the world of stories; now, in the state of having explored the universe of make-believe and learnt of its many nuances, they've become a lovely kind of rediscovery, in the form of fairy tale retellings.

The _Once Upon A Time_ series from Simon Pulse is, in my opinion, the finest collection of such tales. In particular, I _love_ Cameron Dokey's style of storytelling, with its soothing flow and tone of _familiarity_ (as if she's sitting right by your side and telling you the story), which makes even the commonplace, everyday happenings and conversations seem so filled with _magic_, that one can't help appreciating the beauty and sheer wonder of life – as if our simple, routine lives are 'fairy tales' in their own right.

This story is my attempt to recreate that style. The Little Mermaid HAS been retold in the series (Midnight Pearls by Debbie Viguie) but I haven't read it, and I don't remember Disney's movie adaptation very well (having watched it many years ago), so I decided to write down my interpretation of this classic. Hope you enjoy it – any and all reviews and feedback would be greatly appreciated!


	2. Prologue

_Once upon a time a mermaid fell in love with a man._

Sounds familiar?

There is a profusion of tales which begin this way, and which I have heard, time and again, twisted and tweaked in so many ways so as to seem new with every retelling, which is a nature of all stories. The story might have started out at a seaside village like the one I am from – told in the flickering warmth of a bonfire some stormy night, recounted as a bedtime story to some wide-eyed dreamer, narrated and believed as a proof of magic, or the triumph of moral values, or true love (depending on those who were doing the narrating and believing) – and flown around the world, gathering details and foibles, till it reached my village.

Or to be specific, _my_ ears; for I am sure people in my village had heard the tale a hundred times and more, long before I was even born(and are likely to have had a hand in spreading it about, too). That was just me being 'grandiloquent', in the words of my closest friend in the world, who thinks I harbour a love for the dramatic ,which can, apparently, get very irritating when indulged in, _all_ the time.

Are you one of those who think the same?

But what would you have had me do? My life was staid enough, without me increasing its tedium by going about wearing a solemn expression and spouting pronouncements so grave they would make the oldest of the old fishermen down there at the Fisherman's Cove(During the naming of which, I was, obviously, not consulted. And see how unimaginative the result is?) proud.

For instance, the mermaid? I don't think she ever existed; I have spent all my life next to the sea, and never caught sight of so much as a merchild. The sea has plenty of creatures, who on long and close observation may seem to have some human characteristics, but any magical creatures it may have sheltered have either retired permanently into unchartered depths, or are perversely keeping away from human habitation just to keep me stewing in monotony.

Do you blame me for escaping into the world of make-believe? Perhaps that world of stories first came into being as a result of someone else's similar boredom.

My best friend is urging me to get on with the story, fearing that you may get tired of this rambling monologue and wander away in search of more entertaining pastimes.

I wish I could do the same.

For the part of the story of my life which I now relate had more drama than I would have thought I could handle, driving home the old saying, 'Be careful what you wish for, you may just get it.'

_Once upon a time a mermaid fell in love with a man… and sacrificed everything for the sake of true love._

I keep coming back to those words, once heard just as entertainment, now, with wonder; as this story is one that has such startling similarities with my own life's tale, that it has convinced me of the presence of at least a small grain of truth behind every piece of fiction.

Perhaps the threads of many stories like this one were woven into a single tapestry that told the tale, and passed along, for others to marvel at, or add their own coloured skeins to its rich detail.

This, then, is my contribution of fact to that ephemeral tale : the story of my life.


	3. Chapter 1

_Long, long ago…_ there was born the girl who is now telling you this story.

Not so long ago, however, that I forget what it was like to be that girl.

I was born to a normal couple, when the time was just right and not a minute earlier. I was named Jennifer, after my mother's mother(who had left the world before I entered it), but never called that unless when being scolded or reproached. I was, and have been, called Jenny, by one and all, throughout my life, despite my one-time childhood request to be called Guinevere (on reading King Arthur's life history, and finding that my name was supposed to be a modified version of that ill-fated queen's; which to my ten-year-old mind, seemed a very exciting coincidence).

The village I lived in was a small one, cut off from the nearest town by two or three steep hills, with not more than twenty families, all depending on the sea for their livelihood. My own father was not a fisherman, but a merchant, with offices in the aforementioned neighbouring town. The office belonged to him and his elder brother, my uncle, who lived in a house in the town, left to them by my grandparents.

When my father and uncle were young men, they were called aside by my grandfather, who handed over the keys of the office to them, and advised them to conduct the affairs of business with their heads, and affairs of kinship with their hearts (All this I learnt from my grandmother, his wife, who has lived with us since before I was born.) Being dutiful as well as far-sighted men, who were,moreover, fond of each other, my uncle and father decided to divide the work in such a way that would never cause strife between them. My uncle directed the routine workings of trade, but my father had a more active role – that of a prospector.

This is where I tell you more of the place I come from. My village is perched on the edge of the mainland, with just one port - large enough to accommodate only a small schooner, at most. The waters that spread out from the village are used partly for fishing, but more for the purpose which generates the main commodity my father trades: pearl farming.I will not go into the mechanics of the process here, for most people aren't interested, I know, though it is something that I find endlessly fascinating: the cultivating of oysters, the cleaning and polishing to get the most lustrous pearls, which seems almost like a form of treasure-hunting to me. And it isn't relevant anyhow, for that came later.

In my grandfather's time, the main trade that took place along the coast was that of spices, silk and teak, but my father discovered the possibilities of the pearl trade, on a visit to another town, on a chance meeting with a pearl trader. He also discovered love, in the form of that trader's only daughter, and so it came about that my parents were married, and my other grandfather left _his _affairs to my father's management as well. At that time, the business mainly ran through hunting for pearls by employing divers. And that was what the people of my village were, primarily, though they also independently fished for a living; which is why my parents decided to set up house here, rather than live in town.

You can imagine how my childhood was; the only daughter of a family that was on a higher social scale than all those around, nearly all of whom were employed by my father, I couldn't have been spoilt more if I had been born a princess. But I was a very lonely child, as there were very few children in the village, most of whom had begun working by the time I was old enough to begin looking about for playmates. I was schooled at home, for the nearest school was in the town.

Perhaps this was the reason for my love of stories, which began long before I learnt to read. I remember endless hours spent sitting by the fishermen as they wove their nets, begging them for more tales of adventures over the high-seas; pleading our cook Martha, as she kneaded dough for bread, for more stories of life in the town; asking my father for a new fairy tale every time he came to tuck me into bed.

The companions of my childhood were all just companions of my mind, until my seventh year rolled around, which brought me my first and only best friend.


	4. Chapter 2

There are days when I have reached the end without remembering what happened five minutes earlier, having been completely absorbed in following the fancies of my mind, as it jumped from one new subject to another. And other days, when I've felt so vibrantly alive, so immersed in the present, that every sensation, every impulse, every emotion felt is etched indelibly into my memory. The day I met Alan is one that falls into the latter category.

As I mentioned earlier, I had reached the grand age of seven that year, and had also heard the story of the little mermaid for the first time. My head was filled with fairies and wishes, magic and enchantment, castles and riches (I was too young to begin dreaming of a Prince Charming.) My games of pretence had me taking on the role of one magical creature after another, and I had just decided that I was going to be a mermaid, when I went in search of my mother for information.

You may wonder what my mother did in that bungalow; separated as she was from the town she had known all her life. The truth is that my mother was probably never happier than in her simple, quiet life in the village. She was a scholar, having a calm, rather shy disposition, and her love of languages had all the freedom it needed to grow and flourish, in our quiet life. My father got her ancient and less-known texts from other lands, which she deciphered and transcribed. She was a fount of knowledge of all things historic and epical, and many a time had I gone to her with questions about those stories I'd heard, and come away with a dozen different, interesting details to make those pieces of fiction seem more real. Now I wanted a name which would suit a mermaid, for I always took my games very seriously, and had different names for all the different characters I was pretending to be.

It was a balmy day in May, and as I ran in from the beach, I found my mother busy helping Martha, for it was baking day; the day in the month when Martha cooked up a smorgasbord of cookies, patties and other sweet treats. As I made my request, I was met with a snort from Martha.

'You cudn' be a mermaid – haven' you heard? All they do is sleep on rocks and comb their hair all day – your littel feet cudn' stay still for so long! You're better off actin' like a siren – that voice of yours would put any self-respecting siren to shame.'

I demanded details, and learnt that Sirens were creatures which had such haunting voices that their songs bewitched everybody who heard them. This was an idea which seemed very attractive to me, for one of the things I had inherited from my mother was a melodious alto voice, though I used mine only to sing the old sea shanties and folk ballads learnt from the villagers, which were too merry to '_haunt'_ anyone. The similarity was too strong to be ignored: I would be a Siren, and named myself Seira(which was supposedly the origin of their name).

I was sampling a few pastries laid out on the kitchen table when I first heard of Alan. Martha was an inveterate gossip; no event in the village, however trivial,escaped her notice.  
'…they say he's still in shock, poor mite. Won' speak a word to anyone. Tha' part of the coast is becomin' mighty dangerous - reckon their lighthouse ain' doin' it's job. His father was second mate, and left him some blunt, but what's a ten-year-old to do with money alone? Ol' Joe's his father's uncle, and _he's_ eighty, give or take a few years, and what's he to know of bringing up a child, havin' never been married himself? I dunno what's to become of that poor child-'

My ears had pricked up as soon as I realised that she was talking about a child, and when I heard that it was someone just three years older than myself, I felt like my prayers for a friend had finally been answered. I was ecstatic, and my mother's next words sent me over the top with joy.

'Oh, the poor boy! Ask Old Joe to bring him up to the house, Martha, he can take his lessons with Jenny, and Richard may be able to get him to train for some post as he grows older…'

I gave a yell of delight, hugged my mother and rushed out in search of the boy who was to be my new companion.

* * *

The village was half empty; the men having left at dawn for fishing, and the women having gathered at one of the huts, as was their daily custom. The door to Old Joe's hut was open, revealing no potential playmate, as I discovered when I peeked in. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

Disappointed but by no means daunted, I decided to climb up the rocks near the cliff to keep a lookout for the fishermen; he may have decided to accompany the fishermen. I was not allowed to, but he was _ten_ after all, a much more exalted and mature than my mere seven years, so perhaps he may have been taken along. Or so was my reasoning.

The cliff rose on the western side of the village, a mass of boulders heaped any which way, till they formed a rise on which stood a lighthouse. The light wasn't lit except on stormy nights, our part of the coast not being on any major trade route. Standing at the top of the cliff, one could see far out to sea, which I often did during the course of my daily romps.

The wind tousled my hair as I clambered over the rocks, humming a new song I'd learnt. It was a sprightly melody, and as I came to the chorus, I burst out singing aloud, and the wind seemed to share my joy, for it pulled the words away from my lips and carried them away.

_'While the landlubbers lie down below, below, below_  
_While the landlubbers lie down below-'_

I let out a cry of fright and stumbled back. A rock on a huge boulder just ahead had risen into the air. It turned, and I found myself staring at the very person whom I'd been in search of.

The boy was slight of build, taller than me by a few inches. Hair, that was so black that it had led to my mistaking his head for a stone, lay smooth over his head, with a lock that fell over his eyes. Eyes that were the grey colour of the sky on stormy autumn evenings.

We stared at each other in silence for a few minutes, and if it were left to him, may have continued so for much longer, but I had never mastered the art of keeping quiet for such long periods.

'Are you the new boy?' I blurted out, and when no reply seemed to be forthcoming, continued rapidly, 'Martha said Old Joe won't know how to look after you, so Mama said you can come and take lessons with me and we can play at pirates and shipwreck and treasure hunts. Do you like apricot jam? Martha made some yesterday.'

He continued looking at me as though I had two heads and a tail, and didn't speak.

'I have lots of toys – you can play with them, if you like,' I said. 'There's a top and marbles and the doll house Papa brought for me the last time he went to town-'

'I don't play with dolls.'

I gaped at him, my litany of bribes - which I had been reciting in order to tempt him into becoming my playmate - interrupted, but recovered quickly.

'Well, I have rails and a train too, if you want. Will you come and meet Mama?'

He stared at me for a few more minutes. I stared back unflinchingly, but I was nervous inside. I hadn't considered that he might not _want _to be my friend. I held my breath.

'I'll come – if you sing me that song you were singing just now.'

I nodded and grinned at him, filled with joy, and a small smile eased the tense lines around his eyes. The wind whooshed and twirled around us, and a squabble of seagulls passed overhead, squawking as though in celebration.

I had made a new friend.


End file.
